


Invictus

by Bohemienne



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Plug, Anal Sex, Boot Worship, Cock & Ball Torture, Collars, Emperor Ferdinand, Humiliation kink, Kinktober, Kinktober 2019, Light Bondage, M/M, Nipple Piercings, Nipple Play, Oral Sex, Patricide, Praise Kink, Prince Ferdinand - Freeform, Regicide, Under-negotiated Kink, dickstomping, dom!ferdinand, fumbling their way through kink, sub!hubert, subbert
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-17
Updated: 2019-10-17
Packaged: 2020-12-21 09:17:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,224
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21072542
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bohemienne/pseuds/Bohemienne
Summary: A story of Emperor Ferdinand I of Adrestia, and the shadow that lies at his feet.After the Insurrection of the Seven, Hubert is reassigned to serve Prince Ferdinand von Aegir. At first he can't stand the ignorant, uncaring prince--but finds hidden depths to the prince.--Kinktober Day 17: Boot worship





	Invictus

**Author's Note:**

> CODENAME BOOTFIC IS FINALLY DONE!
> 
> THANK YOU TO EVERYONE WHO YELLED AT ME TO FINISH THIS OVER THE FREAKING MONTH IT TOOK TO DRAFT THIS ABOMINATION, LORD. And _especially_ thank you to everyone who not only tolerated my subbert ranting, but sent me incredible subbert art to encourage me???? Y'all are the true heroes.
> 
> Thanks also to [@oversized_frog](https://twitter.com/oversized_frog) for letting me use an idea from [this highly inspirational nipple-piercing lapdog art](https://twitter.com/oversized_frog/status/1182493437733593088)!

His emperor awaits him in the throne room.

In the imperial ballroom, the coronation festivities rage on, all the nobles and ministers and sycophants and fools gorging themselves on roasted pheasant and champagne. Earlier, the most eligible among them were falling over themselves to steal a dance with the newly crowned emperor, while others sought to petition him for countless favors and postings, unable to smother their ambition even for a night. But none paid mind to the emperor’s shadow as he slipped, silent, amongst them; as his emperor’s gaze sought his own across every crowd. When the emperor retired for the evening, the revelers were too far gone to pay it any mind; and when his shadow vanished shortly after, they scarcely noticed at all.

He slips into the throne room, its lengthy span cast in shadow save for the splash of gold at the very end where lamplight caresses the dais, the throne, its gilded occupant. Anticipation like a fist at his throat, he strides patiently, reverently, down the aisle.

“Minister von Vestra.”

The bright voice of Emperor Ferdinand I rings out across the empty hall. Hubert’s pulse canters at that voice, and as he nears, at the glorious sight of him seated on the throne. The red and gold crown perches atop flowing orange locks. A lush cape flows from broad shoulders clad in brocaded red velvet. In one hand, he clutches the golden scepter of his new station, while the scepter’s cap rests in the other hand’s open palm.

But as Hubert draws nearer, it is the sight at his eye level that commands his attention most: gleaming black riding boots on muscular legs. Hubert can see _himself_ in them, they gleam so brilliantly; and, with a delicious thrill down his spine, he can already see the wreck he intends—he hopes—to make of them—even as he himself is undone.

“Your Majesty.” The title tastes lewd in his mouth, forbidden—this thing he’s craved so long but could never properly voice. And the soft inhalation of his emperor confirms he feels it, too. “It is an honor to reaffirm my oath to you. As the emperor of Adrestia, this time.”

Hubert reaches the foot of the dais and drops to one knee. Bowing forward, the cape of his formal uniform drapes just so over his shoulders, and he knows he, too, cuts a dashing figure. He longs to lift his gaze back to the divine sight before him: the elegant face of his master, his emperor, his love. But he is obedient to the last. His emperor always makes it worth the wait.

“Closer, Minister,” his emperor says at last.

Dropping to both knees, he creeps forward. His breathing is shallow now, his chest tight with anticipation. But his emperor is never one to rush. This moment, this act of worship, is something they have both waited for, for far too long. They have both worked too ceaselessly to bring it about. The emperor and his shadow both intend to make it last.

* * *

It wasn’t always this way between them. It shames Hubert to recall, but there was a time he detested the imperial prince. From birth, Hubert had been sworn to protect the last von Hresvelg heir, until she, too, succumbed to the same mysterious illnesses that had plagued her other siblings. He was eleven years old and inconsolable, his young life’s purpose wrenched from his grasp. When the other nobles of the court then revolted against the heirless von Hresvelg emperor, and Ionius IX was swept aside in favor of von Aegir and his heirs, Hubert swore to loathe the young prince Ferdinand on sight.

_This is your charge now,_ Hubert’s father told him, introducing them to one another in the palace conservatory. _Your life is his to command, and his life is yours to protect. By any means necessary._

They regarded one another, and Hubert instantly despised him—his easy smile, his confident stance, his willingness to just step into Hubert’s life and seize it for his own. It wasn’t right. It downright _stung_.

_I’m grateful for your service,_ the young prince said, and held out a gloved hand. Palm downturned. Nine years old and already too confident in his position, too precious and proud. Hubert stared at the hand extended to him, the hand that did not belong to his late mistress, and considered biting it instead.

But the young prince waited. Smiling. His bright expression never fading, even as the seconds between them grew. Finally, with a shove between his shoulder blades from his father, Hubert stepped forward and grudgingly kneeled before this despicable boy who was even younger than him.

He grasped the prince’s outstretched hand, an unsettling dread filling him.

And finally, grudgingly, pressed his lips to the back of his knuckles.

Ferdinand beamed at him. Gleeful to have an older boy to obey his every whim, no doubt. _I think we’re going to be the best of friends._

Hubert stood and folded his arms. _I’m not here to be your friend._

* * *

Over the next nine years, Hubert attended to Prince Ferdinand with a resentful determination. As foolish and brash as the young prince could be, there was a charming sincerity in his actions. In his seeming ignorance, too. He bounded through the palace without a care, traipsing from horseback riding to diplomatic tutoring to state dinners and more, speaking too loudly, too earnestly, with too little concern for the way the politicians and advisers and ministers laughed behind his back.

At first, Hubert joined them, in his heart if not in deed. In deed, it meant an exhausting effort on his part to carefully arrange scenarios that would paint the prince in the best possible light, or prepare talking points for his parliamentary speeches. In the background, he watched, he collected, he prepared dossiers to bribe and intimidate and threaten Ferdinand’s political enemies whenever required.

But with his prince, he took no shortage of opportunity to subtly insult him, relishing the bland, oblivious smile the young prince would reward him with. It was maddeningly easy; maddening how much his prince would brush aside, his freckled cheeks rosy, his laughter never dimming. It was maddening the way he grew from gawky to lithe, muscles honed on a rigorous schedule of riding and lance training and fencing and dancing lessons. Maddening the way Hubert noticed it more and more, especially when the prince was so unconcerned with his state of dress around his retainer, summoning him for conversation whether he was in a full suit of armor or luxuriating in a sudsy bath.

When Hubert was nearly eighteen, he made the mistake of trying to train his prince in self-defense. He needed him to be able to evade an assailant’s blade or spell, at least long enough for Hubert or the prince’s guards to react. But his brute strength and height gave him advantage over the prince, flipping him easily over and over, pinning him to the training mat, hand at Ferdinand’s throat or a blade to the killing vein in his thigh.

Each time he crashed onto his back, or was tugged backward and dropped, Ferdinand stared at him with fury. With hatred—that must have been it. And each time, Hubert felt a dark stitch pull tight inside him, sewing up his fate. The force of that stare was so unlike anything else he’d ever seen from the prince before, and it filled Hubert with a deep shame.

Shame, and something else besides.

That stare found him in his dreams, and it was the true nature of Ferdinand after all his smiles and laughter and joy melted away. It was cold and commanding and it scraped against Hubert’s cheek like the flat of a knife; it whispered orders in his ear, quiet but firm, and this time it was Hubert who’d been knocked flat, who was at his prince’s mercy. Only—far from enraging him, it held him in a cool embrace, ran proud fingers down his spine, and the mere thought of his prince’s physical touch was enough to wake him in a sweat, throat ragged with an unvoiced cry, sheets twisted and stained.

He didn’t offer to train the prince again after that.

But that thing he’d glimpsed beneath his prince’s blithe façade returned for him a few years later, as if reaching out from his shameful dream. It was shortly after the prince’s eighteenth birthday, some time just before they were set to depart for the Officers’ Academy. Ferdinand had been out riding the new horse he’d been given as a gift, playing around as usual—to Hubert’s mind—while Hubert toiled ceaselessly in the shadows to threaten an agricultural secretary who’d been seeding seditious thoughts about the prince. The work left Hubert in a foul mood. Such blatant blackmail was tiresome; he much preferred a subtler game. But he waited for his prince’s arrival, bitterness festering in his heart.

Ferdinand stomped into his quarters in the palace leaving a trail of mud in his wake, and collapsed into the nearest armchair, long limbs sprawled wide. It was several seconds before he even took notice of Hubert waiting patiently for him, arms folded at his back, head tilted deferentially—but not quite far enough. It pleased Hubert to no end, back then, that even with his head inclined he was a fraction taller than the dopey prince who tormented him whether he was asleep or awake.

“Oh. It’s you,” Ferdinand said, and pulled a face as though he meant to rearrange himself into something more proper, but couldn’t quite muster the energy.

“As ever, Your Highness.” And here Hubert cut his gaze with force to the muddy trail. “I am always at the ready to clean up your messes.”

Ordinarily Ferdinand would laugh and brush it off, as he did all of Hubert’s slights. But the weariness in his expression instead calcified into something sharper. Crueler. _Regal_, in a way that clutched at Hubert as the dreams had before, and yet in the past few years it had grown even more lethal. It was the first time Hubert felt—with a suddenness that frightened him, delighted him—that he was not looking at a prince, but at an emperor.

One boot dragged upright, followed by the other, until Ferdinand was sitting formally in his chair. Hubert watched their journey with a cold knot in his gut, that sense of stern whispers and stroking fingers returning.

Ferdinand’s voice dropped to the edge of Hubert’s hearing, sparking with a fire heretofore unheard.

“Then you’d better get to cleaning it.”

That stare was like a lance piercing Hubert through; it lifted, and so did Hubert, unable to resist. Then Ferdinand carried his gaze toward the muddy space of floor just before his feet, and it clearly wasn’t a request.

Hubert dropped to his knees. To his hands. With trembling clarity, he knew exactly what his prince intended for him to do.

This was to be punishment. Not only for this slight, but for years of them, accumulating beneath the gentle surface of the prince’s gaze. He was no cheerful idiot at all, but a man, now, who had been pushed too far. Who was too tired to endure such treatment from the one person who was meant to protect him above all else.

“Go on,” Ferdinand said, voice soft but firm. “Clean my boots for me, shadow.”

Hubert crept forward, heart pounding.

“And don’t even think of using your hands.”

Shame prickled at the back of Hubert’s neck. He’d pushed his prince too far, breaking, surely, one of his sacred vows. It was fitting and just that he be punished this way. Detestable as he found the prince . . .

But as he leaned forward to press his lips to the toe of Ferdinand’s boot, it was an altogether different sensation that rippled through him.

His tongue darted out, tentative. He tasted the mud and straw of the stables, and plenty else he didn’t wish to identify. The leather of the boots themselves. He lapped higher, cutting a path through the dust of the prince’s ride. Tears stung the corners of his eyes—embarrassment. Shame. But an even worse feeling burned, agonizing, between his legs as he worked his way over one boot, and then the next.

His body, it seemed, _craved_ this shame.

The minutes stretched out before them as he worked, his mouth going dry and his throat aching with the accumulated filth. And all the while, Ferdinand sat, unmoving, his presence scarcely felt but for the steady rise and fall of his breath. The same simmering, contained rage from Hubert’s dream; the confident determination to see him broken. Obedient. For the first time, Hubert truly wanted to obey.

Finally, as Hubert lowered his head to begin another round, Ferdinand raised the toe of his boot and used it to tip Hubert’s chin up. Forced him to face his prince. Hubert must have looked dreadful—red-faced, tear-streaked, mouth soiled. But the look Ferdinand gave him was as cool and gentle as ever, lilted with a tiny smile.

“Do you think I don’t see the games you play with me?” Ferdinand asked. “How much you delight in mocking me?”

Hubert closed his eyes, shaking. “I’m sorry, Your Highness.”

“Do you think I am a simpleton, sweet and dense and easy to manipulate? You think I don’t hear the taunts and schemes as I’m underestimated by everyone around me, time and again?”

“Forgive me,” Hubert whimpered, and goddess, how he hated the mewling in his tone—but this was his life, his purpose, and he’d let himself be overcome by his pettiness and spite and—and _resentment_ for the prince getting inside his head.

“I know I am not the first you were sworn to. I know I cannot . . . compare. I’ve been told so. Many times.” For the first time, the prince’s voice wavered. “But we must be able to trust each other. I have to know you will always serve me. Protect me.”

The toe of Ferdinand’s boot trailed down the length of Hubert’s body then. Grazing over buttons. Catching on clasps. Skating across his chest, his stomach, down to his groin. Then—

“And you must trust in return that I’ll do anything for you.”

Hubert shuddered as Ferdinand pressed the toe of his boot against the shaft of his hard, flushed cock. He was already leaking, surely staining the inside of his breeches—but they’d been loose enough and dark enough to conceal his shameful erection until now. Yet his prince knew. His prince, it was turning out, knew him far, far better than he could possibly suspect.

“How sorry are you, really?” Ferdinand asked, voice rougher still. His toe completed its voyage and came back to the floor, his thighs now parted.

“I won’t underestimate you again, my prince.”

He settled back in his chair, and Hubert’s breath caught. Ferdinand’s lightweight riding breeches revealed the prince to be in a similar state, the outline of his cock straining at the placket. Had he truly done that to his prince? That alone made his humiliation, his embarrassing state, all worth it.

“So how,” Ferdinand asked, “do you intend to ask forgiveness of me?”

Hubert closed his eyes. Wrapped one arm around a boot-clad calf. Nuzzled the side of his face against the boot. He waited, waited to hear the eager hitch in his prince’s breath that assured him he had his full attention.

Carefully, he kissed the inside of Ferdinand’s knee, just above the rim of his riding boot. Firm cavalryman’s muscles tensed under his touch, and it made the heat in Hubert’s belly flare even brighter.

“Like so, Your Highness.”

He mouthed at the thin fabric of Ferdinand’s riding breeches, right at the inside of his thigh. Nudged Ferdinand’s legs wider to allow himself to slide deeper into their embrace. With another soft gasp, Ferdinand complied, and as Hubert bit more viciously at the meat of that well-toned thigh, fingers tangled in his hair.

“That’s it. My shadow.” Ferdinand’s grip loosened as Hubert worked his tongue at the buttons holding his placket in place. He had warned him, after all, not to use his hands. “Perhaps you and I can trust each other after all.”

Hubert couldn’t help it—he moaned right against the fabric as he managed to tease it open. All he wanted was to be useful. To serve a worthy heir. Perhaps he had misjudged his prince after all.

Ferdinand sucked in on his teeth as the placket fell open at last, and his cock fell free. _Perfection,_ Hubert breathed. Thick and elegant. And eager for _him_.

He trailed his tongue up the length of it, and as fingers tightened in his hair, as he lapped away sticky threads and wrapped his lips around it, he reaffirmed his vows to his prince.

* * *

Now, he approaches the throne’s dais on all fours, cape spread out behind him. He’s dressed in his full regalia as the Minister of the Imperial Household, though most understand his duties encompass everything from overseeing His Majesty’s horseback riding schedule to managing spy rings across the continent. He is known, simply, as the shadow—and he is proving so now, pooling at his emperor’s feet.

“Your Majesty.” There is a dangerous tremor in his voice, one plucked with reverence and want. Yet this is everything he has ever wanted for his prince—his _emperor_—and after so long waiting, so long toiling for it, the moment itself is too sacred for him to bear. “Allow me to congratulate you personally on your glorious ascent to the throne.”

Hubert doesn’t dare look up from his current position, staring at the polished black toes of his emperor’s boots, but he hears the smile in Ferdinand’s voice. “And have you come to pay your respects, my shadow?”

“I did not think I could convey them sufficiently at the gala.” He leans forward, and has to fight back the urge to brush his cheek against gleaming leather. “It might have caused a scandal.”

“But what a show it would have been.”

Ferdinand nudges one foot slightly in front of the other. An offering to his pet. Only now does Hubert risk a quick lift of his head, and Ferdinand smiles down at him. His face is radiant, glowing from all the gold around him, softly freckled and rosy against bright, keen eyes. How could Hubert have ever thought him simple? Like Hubert, Ferdinand knew what it was to take the tools he’d been given—the mold he’d been cast into—and wield it for whatever purpose he needed it to serve. Ferdinand is grace and confidence and sunlight, and he has used it to climb his way here.

“My emperor,” Hubert breathes, unable now to look away. “Ferdinand.”

Ferdinand lowers the scepter and runs the cold metal end across Hubert’s cheek. The prongs dig into his skin, but it’s exactly what he needs, exactly the discomfort he wants to ground him and keep him in this moment as long as possible. He never wants to forget this, never wants to lose sight of how far they’ve come, how far they can go still.

“Hubert.”

Hubert winces, the discomfort growing in a way he needs. His emperor almost never uses his name.

“I believe,” Ferdinand says, “that we have earned our place here. To be as scandalous as we please.”

Hubert exhales, his breath fogging the shiny leather before him. His mouth is too dry to manage more than a slow nod. All he wants is to touch his emperor, taste him, worship him—but he must be patient, as patient as he’s ever been.

“And none of this could have been possible without you at my side. At my feet.” The scepter bites into Hubert’s lower lip, and pulls—the prongs at the end drawing blood. Hubert shudders at the bitter taste on his tongue, intoxicating, and yet not the taste he craves. “You’ve done so well. You’ve been so good.”

“It was all for you,” Hubert says.

“For both of us, I think.” Ferdinand smiles, that radiant grin. “But I think you, especially, deserve to be rewarded.” He places the scepter back in his lap. “What do you wish, love?”

He leans forward at last, cheek to the inside of one of Ferdinand’s calves, his mouth open and greedy. “I wish to pay tribute.”

Ferdinand lets out a slow breath. “Then do.”

He kisses his emperor’s toe, mouth smudging that perfect, gleaming surface. Kisses the arch of the boot and the inside ankle. His lips mark the path of his tribute, a visible trail flecked with the faintest bit of blood. His emperor’s boots are pure, pristine now, unlike that first time; he is the taint upon them that no one else need ever see. His duty. His privilege. Up one shin; down the inside of the other calf. He wants them covered.

Ferdinand lets out a shuddering breath, then lowers a hand to rest on the crown of Hubert’s head. Hubert pauses, mouth fixed near one knee, and peels his gaze upward without removing his lips. His emperor’s smile is so gentle, it’s easy to see, even now, how some might underestimate him. No one else ever needs to see the sharp edges it hides.

Once he’s certain Hubert’s attention is on him—as if there could ever be a question—Ferdinand reaches into his velvet jacket and draws something out with his gloved hand. Tipping his hand to one side, a delicate gold chain slithers loose, spilling down Ferdinand’s lap and dangling against the inside of one marred boot, just before Hubert’s face. Hubert sucks on his teeth but tries to restrain himself otherwise.

“Go on, love,” Ferdinand says softly. “It’s time.”

* * *

After his first time truly obeying his prince, everything changed. Rather than working for his prince almost in spite of himself, he took great joy in it—almost as much joy as he took in reporting his victories to Ferdinand, whose praise was boundless. Who was boundless himself—insatiable, even. They worked side by side, at last, to carefully steer his father’s cabinet and parliament and reshape it to the prince’s wishes.

And when their work was done, Hubert belonged to Ferdinand. His to command. His mouth, his hands, his body were his prince’s to treat how he pleased. And the more it pleased his prince, the more it pleased Hubert—until those sweat-drenched dreams of years past seemed foolish, naïve. He could never even have imagined how it felt to have his prince pinning him to a wall, wrists trapped in just one of those strong hands, ankles locked around a sturdy waist, neck and chest thoroughly engraved by his lover’s mouth as tears of desperation and delight streaked his face.

But if Hubert had thought that his newly cemented status under his prince’s command had bought him any leeway, he was sorely mistaken.

They were both enrolled as students at the officers’ academy, though it was understood that Hubert did so far more for the utility it would serve him as his prince’s retainer than for any military function of his own. As such, it was his duty to support his prince to the utmost of his abilities. And sometimes this meant doing the hard things, the painful things, that his prince would not do for himself.

The letters from the capital came monthly, at first. Then weekly. Dipped in perfume, or stamped with red lips alongside sigil-pressed wax. Some flirtatious, some coy, some outright lurid in their intentions for the prince. At first, he merely delivered them to Ferdinand, but Hubert would find their remains burned, unopened, in the prince’s fireplace. So then he began screening them—selecting only the most promising prospects to present, personally, to the prince for review. This, too, the prince would barely tolerate before casting them all aside.

Hubert was at a loss. He didn’t relish the idea of the prince—_his_ prince—courting, much less marrying, whelping spawn. But his vows to Ferdinand meant seeing this, too, come to pass. He hoped, of course, to remain the loyal shadow at his prince’s feet no matter who warmed Ferdinand’s bed. But such matters were beyond his control; dwelling on them only brought on an agonizing futility, a stone in his throat choking him. Far better to focus on what was in his considerable powers of bargaining, blackmailing, and bribing to make the best possible match for his prince.

In this, too, he hoped to please his prince—to prove his worth. Strangely, he hoped making the ideal wedding match for Ferdinand just might be the thing to keep him in his graces. Thus was the logic that ensnared him in those days. He was his station, and his prince—was his.

Until the day he arranged a picnic on the monastery grounds for Ferdinand and a Lady von Gierhart, and did not inform his prince until she had already arrived.

“You invited a lady,” Ferdinand repeated, staring at him with eyes narrowed. “Here. To dine with _me_.”

“I selected Lady Lucretia personally for you,” Hubert said, fighting the urge to shrink away from his prince and his palpable displeasure. “She is a patron of the arts, an avid equestrienne, and a supporter of many of the reformation bills currently under consideration in parliament—”

“Wonderful. Then you can woo her yourself.” Ferdinand pulled his riding jacket from the back of his chair. “I want nothing to do with it.”

As he moved for the door, Hubert shifted to block his path. They were chest to chest now, the prince half a head shorter than Hubert and yet somehow looming with his fierce glower. Hubert’s every instinct screamed for him to back down—acquiesce to his master and, perhaps even more importantly, _please_ him, undo anything he could possibly do that made his master cross. But it was his duty. This was his duty, and he couldn’t bear the thought of not serving his prince well.

“Your Highness,” Hubert said, calling on his smoothest, most vicious tone—the one he usually reserved for nights spent in the shadows, a tipped vial of poison or a blade in the dark. “The sooner you select a lady to court, the sooner you need no longer deal with the petty politics surrounding questions of succession.”

Ferdinand reached up then—white-gloved fingers brushing against Hubert’s cheek before journeying down to rest around his throat. Hubert swallowed and felt the pressure of his prince’s thumb right against his throat’s apple.

“I don’t wish to court a lady,” Ferdinand said, in a low voice that rippled against Hubert’s skin. “I don’t wish to court anyone.”

_Not even me?_ Hubert caught himself thinking—a stupid, stupid thought.

“It is your duty. And as your humble servant, it is my duty to see it fulfilled.”

The fingers at his throat tightened; flexed. Their mouths were so close, and Hubert craved to be kissed, something tender, anything to let him know he was forgiven—

“If it were so important to you,” Ferdinand said, “then you wouldn’t indulge me the way you do.”

Hubert blinked. “Indulge you?”

“Indulge. Obey. It’s what you do, isn’t it?” Snarling, Ferdinand pushed back from him; dropped his hand. “You serve me however it is you think I require. Nothing more and nothing less.”

Hubert bit back a soft cry. Was that what he did for his prince? Was that how his prince saw their bond? That it was mere duty—and not complete and utter _devotion_, relentless worship—that brought him to heel again and again.

“My prince, I think you greatly misunderstand—”

“Fine. I’ll go see this lady of yours.” Ferdinand’s mouth twisted fiercely. “If you don’t wish the burden of serving me a particular way, then I’ll do whatever I must to relieve you of that burden.”

“Please, Your Highness. You misunderstand me.” His eyes stung as he reached for Ferdinand’s sleeve. “It isn’t that I don’t want—”

But Ferdinand had already stormed from the room.

The thing that lodged in his throat whenever he worked on selecting a marriage prospect for his prince returned with a vengeance. He couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t swallow; tears stung his eyes. He’d only ever done this for his prince. His prince, and his own mad, desperate hope that no matter what path Ferdinand chose, he would still bring Hubert along it with him.

Just to be near his prince was enough. To work for him, forever strive for him and his goals. But he’d dared to hope that Ferdinand would always seek him out, much as he did now . . . Sometimes with dark embers burning in his eyes, a command on his lips and an infuriating patience. Other times, so soft and maddeningly gentle Hubert could came undone with joy and want alone.

For Ferdinand to think Hubert wanted to be rid of him—it was unconscionable. And yet it revealed, too, what a farce Hubert had allowed himself to believed. His prince would someday be emperor. An emperor must have heirs. Dallying with one’s retainer was for young, foolish men. Someday, Hubert, too, must be put away.

He laid down on the makeshift pallet beside Ferdinand’s bed in the narrow dorm room and no longer fought the tears.

It must not have been more than a few hours until Ferdinand returned, but it felt like days. The golden sunlight out the window had turned watery and gray when he heard the heavy tread of the prince’s boots. Hubert sat up—scrubbed at the dried trails of salt along his cheeks. He was a goddess-damned _assassin_. He did not cry.

Ferdinand stalked into the room, expression just as stormy as when he’d left. His gaze fell on Hubert and his upper lip curled back.

“You’re still here. You did not go back to your room?”

Hubert had been assigned the room beside Ferdinand’s, but rarely used it. His life was here: handling his prince’s correspondence and affairs, tending to his every needs, grasping for whatever his prince would offer him. And most nights—tangled together in bed. There was nothing they didn’t want to try; nothing they couldn’t share. Only the need for quiet stifled them at all.

“I was waiting to serve you,” Hubert said. Why else? Surely Ferdinand couldn’t be surprised.

“Do you wish to be free of me?” Ferdinand asked, turning away from him. He began to unfasten his armor, his riding gear, fingers clumsy and unused to the many buckles and straps. But when Hubert started to rise to assist him, he jerked away.

“The very thought pains me,” Hubert said honestly—and hoped his voice did not shake too much. “How was your picnic with Lady Lucr—”

“Do you wish to be free of me, _Hubert_?” Ferdinand said, louder now. “No—I won’t let semantics curse you. You _are_ free. Right now. I command you the freedom to walk out that door and never return to my service again. If you so choose.”

The panic was returning; Hubert reached out to steady himself on the bedpost. “I—I could never.”

“You can. And if you wish it, you will. I’m rather inclined to think you do, given your determination to marry me off. Just like everyone else.”

Hubert’s chest ached. “My prince . . . I did that as my duty to you. Everything I do is out of duty. And—” He clenched his jaw, but was unable to stop himself. “And love.”

Ferdinand’s face was scarlet. “Don’t _lie_ to me—”

“I’m not lying!” Hubert cried.

Ferdinand slammed a vambrace down on his dresser and drew a few ragged breaths before turning back to face him. Fleetingly, he was the scared, insecure boy his father’s courtiers pushed around, but then Hubert’s prince returned.

“You are free, von Vestra. You are relieved of your duties.”

A pitiful sob wracked from him. “Please, no—”

Ferdinand’s mouth trembled as he clutched at the doorframe for support. “I offer you two options. First, a hearty referral and safe passage to wherever you wish to go. Ample funds to buy whatever you need.”

“Your Highness, please, I don’t want to—”

“Or . . . you may remain here. With me. But it must be your _choice_.” Ferdinand’s voice cracked; his golden lashes glinted with moisture. “But if you choose me—”

Hubert fell silent. He was snared on that possibility; overwhelmed with the need to stay here—right here with his prince—and he would seize it any way he could.

“If you choose me, then no more. No more courtship, no marriage offers, no trying to be—be rid of me—”

Ferdinand stopped himself with a sharp inhale of breath, and one tear spilled free, trailing down freckled cheeks. Goddess, how he wanted to wipe those tears now. Kiss them away, if his prince allowed. If Ferdinand was still his prince at all.

“It is you,” Ferdinand said. “You whom I want. And no other. But you have to choose me. Because—” He turned his head away, the dampness spreading to his voice like a stain. “I cannot bear to think you’re only with me out of obligation, duty, oath.”

Hubert could not pay any more heed to the weight crushing him just then, at once fearful and relieved and desperate. Had he come so close to losing his prince? But no—there was only one choice for him, as well.

He threw himself at his prince’s feet.

“I swear, Your Highness. I swear I wish for you and no other. I—choose you. And if you should do me the honor of choosing me—”

“Oh, Hubert.” Ferdinand offered him a tremulous smile. “A thousand times, yes.”

A tear-damp hand reached down to feather against his cheek, and Hubert gasped with a sigh. The weight in his chest was at last unspooling. Yes—he needed his prince. He needed Ferdinand. And the overwhelming rush of relief was better than any cleansing rain to know that his prince chose him, too.

“My shadow,” Ferdinand murmured, and for the warmth and fondness in his tone, Hubert was quite certain it was even better than _My love._

“My prince.”

Hubert brushed his cheek against Ferdinand’s fingertips before bowing lower. Prostrate before his prince. He kissed the toes of Ferdinand’s metal riding greaves, then, the metal warm and dusty. “That’s it,” Ferdinand murmured. “Be mine.”

“Always,” Hubert said, before lapping higher. Resting on his knees now to reach Ferdinand’s thighs.

“Always,” Ferdinand echoed, voice thick. “Hubert, I . . .”

Hubert sighed at the hand carding through his hair, and nipped at the front of Ferdinand’s thigh. “Yes?”

“I want to—to give you something.”

Hubert hesitated. “I have no gift to offer you in return.”

“You don’t have to.” Ferdinand smiled down at him; wiped away a tear with the back of his hand. “You are the gift, to me.”

It was like the earth dropping away from beneath Hubert, leaving him floating.

And this was the thing he had been craving all this time that he couldn’t put into words. He knew his master wanted him. But he didn’t know that he _belonged_.

“Here.” Ferdinand’s hand caressed his cheek before gently peeling away, and he moved around Hubert to dig through his equipment. “This one is only temporary. Until I can have something more . . . suitable made for you, pet.”

“Pet?” Hubert echoed, with an eager shiver.

“Yes. Because you’re mine. And I’m yours.” Ferdinand turned back toward him, a thin leather strap dangling from one hand. Something scavenged off his riding gear, no doubt—not that Hubert was about to complain. “I thought perhaps, as my pet, you’d like a—a collar.”

The prince’s cheeks flushed deep red suddenly, and he dropped his hands.

“I—I’m sorry—it sounds so terrible when I say it aloud, but I—I just want—”

“Ferdinand. Prince.”

Hubert rose to his knees and crawled toward him. Wrapped his arms around those honed thighs, cheek flush against them. Anchored him. Loved him.

“I want it,” Hubert whispered. “Please.”

“Truly?” Ferdinand asked.

Hubert exhaled against him. “Let me belong to you.”

Ferdinand cradled a gloved hand beneath his chin; pushed his thumb against Hubert’s lower lip. Hubert tasted the salty tang of sweat accumulated on the glove; the dust and leather of his ride and something like a splash of red wine from his meal with Lucretia. Never again. They were each other’s, now. Fully. Willingly. As his prince shyly trailed fingers down the cords of his neck, he knew he would never have to wonder.

Ferdinand’s fingers were steady as he slipped the leather strap around Hubert’s throat; worked the buckle closed with nimble fingers. It was a fraction tight. Hubert swallowed, and felt the leather bite into his flesh. But he couldn’t imagine it any other way. He wanted to be reminded. He wanted to know, with every breath.

“Mine,” Ferdinand cooed, and brushed Hubert’s dark bangs back from his face. Cupped his cheek.

Hubert nodded, meeting his gaze. “However you wish me.”

“Mm.” Ferdinand’s hand at his cheek tightened—hair catching between gloved fingers, tugging at Hubert’s scalp. “What I _wish_ is to see you wrecked.”

Hubert’s heart leapt.

His prince stripped him down. Found another leather harness to bind his wrists behind his back, then secured it through the collar at his throat. Barely touching him as he worked, leaving him with only the rough friction of leather on skin, but even this was enough to leave Hubert aching, leaking. Hungry for any touch—gentle, brutal, devouring.

And then it came—one hand at the back of his neck and another at his hip. Shoving him onto his face. Hubert cried out, but let himself be tipped forward to the floor, let his thighs be pushed wide, let that leather strap yank tight—

“My shadow,” Ferdinand said. “My filthy, bloody shadow.”

And when his prince was done with him, he was well and truly marked: tear-streaked, sweat-stained, come-filled, bitten and bruised and broken, his throat a rasping husk from choked-back sobs and knees and face throbbing from his curled position; and most of all, the words, the whispers in his ear.

His prince’s promise. His prayer.

And knowing, now, that Prince Ferdinand was his, he would do everything in his power to protect his prince. Protect _them_.

In here, wrecked and shattered before his prince, he was pliant. Soft. Enamored. Broken and remade.

Beyond here, though—he was a sharpened blade. And it was time to be put to new use.

* * *

Hubert clutches at the golden chain like a holy relic, his heart soaring, pounding faster. His mouth is parched from licking his emperor’s boots, but he must ask, must be sure what his Ferdinand wants—“H-how would you like me, love?”

“Ah. An excellent question.” Ferdinand leans forward, boots crossing at the ankles. His citrine eyes dazzle, mischievous, as they drink Hubert in. “Coat and shirt off. Unlace your breeches. But leave them on, I think.”

Hubert stifles a sigh, already imagining just what his emperor means to do with him. His breeches are much too tight already, his cock heavy where it’s trapped against him, and merely unlacing them won’t be enough to fully give him relief. “And the chain?”

“Mm. Just your collar, tonight.” Ferdinand smiles, the sunshine grin that melts Hubert every time. “I have other plans in mind.”

Hubert bites the inside of his cheek to keep from crying out at that.

“As my emperor commands,” he says instead, and doesn’t miss the pleased sigh it stokes from Ferdinand. Because as much as he lives to obey him—nothing brings him greater pleasure than knowing he’s pleased his Ferdinand, too.

Hubert sits back on his feet and gazes up at those bright eyes. His gloved fingers work deftly at the fastenings of his cloak, and it falls, heavy, behind him; his belt and jacket are next, complicated hooks and buttons undone carefully under Ferdinand’s watchful gaze. “Such a lovely shadow you are,” Ferdinand murmurs, as Hubert tugs his gloves free with his teeth. And even after their years together, Hubert can’t help but blush, but feel a wonderful tightness inside him at the praise.

He works open the buttons on his cuffs and sheds his dress shirt at last, and Ferdinand murmurs, appreciative. A thick gold band circles his throat where his emperor locked it in place that morning. Throughout the coronation ceremony, the rites, the festivities, it’s weighed on him, constricting his throat every time he swallows and speaks, just enough to remind him of its presence with every breath. Now, at last, he clips the delicate chain to the front. Further down the lean muscles of his chest, there are two matching golden loops—one piercing each nipple—with a thin chain linking them together. This, too, has chafed and rubbed at the inside of his shirt all day, and his nipples are painfully hard and raw from the endless friction. Aching to be touched. But his emperor hasn’t willed it—so he leaves them be.

“Of all the gold-dipped gifts I’ve had shoved at me today,” Ferdinand muses, “I think this one is my favorite.” He takes the chain from Hubert’s hands and gives it a gentle pull. He shoves Hubert’s bangs from the side of his face to rake a gloved thumb against his cheek. “Though I wager it’ll look even better painted with come. Wouldn’t you agree?”

Hubert gives a sharp shudder, hands tensing just as he’s reached for the lacing of his breeches. “It—it would be an honor, Your Majesty.”

Leaning back in his throne, Ferdinand lifts one foot in the air. The sole of his boot pushes against Hubert’s cheek, and in a sharp reminder that he didn’t lick those soles clean, he feels the fine grit of the day’s accumulated dirt scrape against his cheek as Ferdinand slowly drags it down. His foot pushes at Hubert’s tense neck, and digs into his collarbone with a heavy heel. It travels further, catching on one nipple, yanking at the ring there, and the fine chain pulls at the other in response. Hubert’s breath stutters at that, the pain abrupt and exquisite, and yet so fleeting as the boot dips lower. Hubert hurriedly shimmies the tight lacing of his trousers apart, just enough that he can pull them lower onto his narrow hips—just enough for the leaking, crimson tip of his cock to jut out, but with every slight twitch of his muscles, that row of laces shifts cruelly against his shaft.

“Finally.”

His emperor pushes the sole of his boot flat against Hubert’s erection as he wraps the leash tight around one gloved fist. Presses. Hubert whimpers, agony building as he yearns to feel that sole move, to feel anything, anything to relieve this abominable tension twisting inside of him—

But then Ferdinand stands, and in one swift move knocks Hubert onto his back. Still clenching hold of the leash. And the flat of his boot is still pushing against Hubert’s cock—now with considerably more weight.

Ferdinand smiles that sunbeam smile that never fails to make Hubert melt, and the heel of the boot docks itself on Hubert’s balls.

“Fuck,” Hubert wheezes, the pain quickly turning excruciating. Heavy and sharp and crushing. His hands work at his sides as he fights to keep from shoving the boot off of him, but he could never defy his master, knows he doesn’t want this to stop, deep down—

“You do not like your reward?” Ferdinand asks. “A filthy wretch like you? I thought you reveled in suffering. You certainly like to inflict it, after all.”

Hubert manages a high-pitched keen in response as Ferdinand crushes the heel further down onto him. Black spots mar Hubert’s vision now; everything else falls away until he is nothing but that hot point of pain and the throb of his needy cock and the voice of his emperor, his Ferdinand, his tether to consciousness. Everything else is woolly, tenuous. He needs nothing else but this—

“What was that, you pathetic rat?” Ferdinand snaps. “I couldn’t hear it over your mewling.”

“Th-thank you,” Hubert whines. “Thank you, Your Majesty—please—” Bile burns at the back of his throat as his body becomes one single, throbbing bruise that he wants to push and push. “I deserve it—”

“For the blood all over your hands, for your crimes against the empire.” Ferdinand’s smile sharpens. “For underestimating _me_, all those years ago.”

And then Ferdinand shifts his weight—starting to raise off of his supporting foot entirely.

“Shit—” Hubert cries.

Ferdinand laughs, so bright and warm. “A worthless goblin like you were back then can surely come like this, can’t you? You live for punishment.”

“Only—” Hubert grits—“from you—”

Ferdinand drops his weight back onto his supporting foot, and the sudden relief sends Hubert spiraling. Hurting even more, somehow, without the immediate pain. He whimpers as sensation rushes back into the rest of his body, as his cock pulses, starved for attention even through the pain.

“Fortunately, we’ve come so far, haven’t we?” Ferdinand says. “You’re not just any monster, any shadow.” And there’s that soft smile again, filling Hubert’s vision as he blinks past the encroaching black. “Mine.”

Hubert swallows, but a sharp jerk at the leash constricts his throat. Oh, he is reminded—yes, there are still plenty of places for him to feel pain, and he welcomes them all.

Ferdinand skims the boot to the side, and the edge of the soles goes flush along the line of Hubert’s erection. Traces up and down—light at first, then with sudden insistence. “Come for me,” Ferdinand murmurs. “Like my worthless little slut that you are.”

And the agony, the friction, his emperor’s _voice_—the boot dragging along those many laces, the throbbing still in his tortured balls—it’s all too much.

With a gasping cry, he comes, tears in the corners of his eyes at the blurred haze of pain and ecstasy. He’s sobbing, he’s trembling, he’s spilling onto his own stomach, and as he sinks, he’s only faintly aware of the murmuring approval of his emperor standing over him. Only barely feels the toe of Ferdinand’s boot smear the sticky mess across his abdomen.

Hubert’s whole body goes slack, and when at last he can ease open his eyes, Ferdinand is waiting for him, boot digging into his sternum.

“Still with me, love?” his emperor asks softly.

With a weary smile, Hubert nods.

“Good. I’m not nearly done with you yet.”

And then the toe of the boot is thrust crudely against his mouth—

“But first, you have another mess to clean up.”

* * *

Once Hubert swore to keep Ferdinand from being forced into courtship—once his prince granted him freedom from his oath and, in the same night, claimed him as his own—they slipped into a far easier pattern than before. Gone was the desperate paranoia that ate at Hubert, day and night—the fear that he could so easily be replaced, that his position was only as strong as his work. But with their bond sealed and locked together, he could take greater and greater risks. He would do anything to protect his prince.

Ferdinand, for his part, grew bolder and bolder in defying the wishes of his father and the court. He stopped cutting his hair, despite his father’s admonishments, and Hubert found himself lost in that glorious waterfall of bright locks, suffocating in it, wrenching at it, breathing it in. Ferdinand spoke his mind at court, ignoring the ministers who tried to talk over him or lecture him; he demanded they reverse course on garbage designed to appease the church or their allies, or pushing back on needlessly cruel levies, and Ferdinand no longer cared if they whispered that he was too soft-hearted to rule.

Prince Ferdinand didn’t need a bitter, vengeful heart. Not with a shadow like Hubert to be his iron will.

But in time, Hubert caught wind of a greater shift amongst the court. No one wanted to see the younger von Aegir princesses rule, of course—a ridiculous notion, when there was an eldest son—but they wondered if the throne would really be safe in the prince’s hands. They worried he would not protect the nobles and the status they’d worked so hard to fortify, entrenching themselves like leeches digging in. They feared he would upend the social order the church worked so hard to enforce, the world of crests and arranged marriages and more. They wondered if, when the time came and the emperor passed—if Adrestia would be better off without Ferdinand at its helm.

They got careless, assertive in these beliefs. They forgot to watch the shadows when they voiced them. And when no one came to challenge them, to warn them with a knife or a stack of damning letters of the dangers of their schemes, they grew bolder still.

Hubert wanted to ensure he gave them ample rope to hang themselves. But while he waited, the wounds cut deeper and deeper into his prince.

The final straw was when his prince came to him late one night, after a long day in Parliament and an even longer state dinner afterward. He couldn't look Hubert in the eye as he wrestled with the buttons on his shirt cuffs. Long bright hair shielded that usually sunny face, and as Hubert stood and moved to assist him in addressing, Ferdinand pulled away from him with a snarl.

“My Highness?” Hubert's muscles felt cramped, useless. He was a weapon, a tool, but he had been left to gather dust.

Ferdinand huffed and let the cuffs of his shirt lap open as he fell against Hubert's chest. Instantly Hubert melted around him, arms coming up around Ferdinand to help him cling to him, steady him. He cradled Ferdinand's head with one hand as the other secured his waist. His lips found his prince’s smooth forehead and kissed him softly, waiting. He could wait like this forever, give his prince time to voice whatever was vexing him so. But what Hubert most wanted was to fix whatever had upset his presence, to punish whoever had brought him to tears this way.

“They want to be rid of me.” Ferdinand's hands tightened against Hubert's shirt. “Even if it means deposing my father, they'll do it to be done with me.”

Hubert ran long fingers through Ferdinand's hair, his breath unrelenting. “Then we must move against them first.”

“There are too many.” Ferdinand's face nestled in the crook of Hubert's neck. “If I am no longer prince, I lose what little power I hold now. No more progress, no more reform.” He tipped his head back to gaze up at Hubert with wet lashes. “I can no longer protect you. I could lose you entirely.”

The dull ache Hubert's chest was flaring now. He knew what must be done. But the less his prince knew of it, the better. “Darling. There . . . might be a way.”

Ferdinand watched him, waiting. Hope like a trickle of sun on those freckled cheeks.

Hubert sighed, rubbing a small circle low against his prince’s back. The fabric of Ferdinand’s loose white blouse shifted, silky, under Hubert's touch, and Ferdinand sighed so softly, so sweetly, that Hubert already knew he would do anything, anything.

“The less you know of it, the better,” Hubert said. He locked his gaze on Ferdinand's, and couldn’t help the nervous that bubbled up from within him. “But with your permission, I will do whatever is necessary.”

He could see the spark behind the prince’s bright eyes as he considered. Weighing options, sorting the potential gains and losses to those clever columns in his mind. Flames, how Hubert loved to watch his prince at work. Then, slowly, Ferdinand nodded.

“You have my blessing,” he said. His bare fingers rose to rest, shyly, at Hubert's jaw. Do whatever you must.”

All the tension and fury left Hubert at once, leaving only his devotion to his prince and this heat that sang in his blood at Ferdinand's nearness, at the knowledge of what was to come.

Ferdinand’s lips brushed at Hubert’s throat ever so slightly. “But tonight . . . Please. I just want you to care for me.”

Hubert's exhale was fragile as spun glass. He was sure he might shatter. But it would be worth it. His prince was always worth it.

“Anything for you.”

So he pulled his prince into his lap, sitting back on his bed. Ferdinand kept his face buried in Hubert’s shoulder as Hubert kissed his cheek, his ear; as his hands raked up his sides and teased his dress shirt down one shoulder. Ferdinand sighed into his skin, and the very sound of it, the rumble of it, unraveled him.

_Let me take care of you,_ he said, not with words but with his lips, sucking at the cords of his prince’s throat and a thumb stroking the head of his cock. _Let me be everything to you. The way you are to me._

And his prince surrendered to him. Melted around him, tears drying, soul opening as his arms clung tightly to his shadow. He let himself be unwrapped like the sacred relic that he was, and held on to Hubert in a way that spoke of so much more than whatever burning want had first sent them crashing into each other. They had been thrown together against the odds, but they were made for each other, forged in two halves of the same mold.

His prince.

His shadow.

Each other’s salvation—whatever it took.

And as he lost himself inside Ferdinand, drowned himself in soft cries and hands cupped around faces and kisses so slow they threatened to break—he knew.

He knew exactly what it would take.

And he would do anything—for this.

* * *

Emperor Ferdinand smiles down at him as he licks the last of his own salty come from gleaming black boots.

“So well-behaved you are,” he murmurs, and drops down to one knee near Hubert’s head. One gloved hand brushes down the side of Hubert’s face before moving lower, fingertips fluttering against the delicate chain spanning his chest. “How are you feeling, love?”

Hubert’s breath is still erratic; he’s still settling back into himself, as if his soul went someplace else while his body was in revolt. But he wants to feel everything, see everything, hear everything. He wants to taste his beloved emperor, and be consumed by him in turn. They have earned this together. They have earned—this.

“I’m here,” he slurs. Turns his head into Ferdinand’s hand, eyes lidding. The white satin glove strokes his cheek, and Ferdinand kisses his temple with a contented hum.

“So you are. My loyal hound.” Hubert can feel the proud smile against his skin, and a pleased shiver runs through him. “Do you think you can perform more tricks for me, love?”

“Anything for you.”

“So you say.”

Abruptly, he lowers his hand, and hooks two fingers on the gold chain linking Hubert’s nipples. The sudden sensation is sharp, twisting, his nipples alert in an instant—and even through the dull throb in his balls, Hubert feels the first stir of blood in his cock.

“And yet . . .” Ferdinand twists the two fingers, and Hubert yelps. “Still you won’t tell me just how you brought us here.”

_Here._ His coronation. His throne. His hand-selected cabinet and advisers. Everything his emperor has deserved for so long. Hubert smiles wearily and relishes the needling pain in his nipples as Ferdinand continues to twist.

“It’s better if you don’t know, my love.” He smiles—can’t help but laugh. “At least, not for some time.”

“And when have you ever known me to be patient?” Ferdinand asks.

Before Hubert can answer, Ferdinand ducks his head, and flicks his tongue against one of Hubert’s stretched nipples. He swirls the ring from side to side, and Hubert doesn’t bother to stop the wet cry he makes. Ferdinand only laughs with his mouth closed on Hubert’s flesh.

“You’re plenty patient,” Hubert mutters, “when it comes to tormenting me.”

“Now why would I ever rush that?” As Ferdinand tilts his head, orange wisps of hair feather across Hubert’s too-sensitive chest. Ferdinand looks up at him with a wicked smile. “You’re a delicious meal, and I want to savor every course. Mm.” His teeth clench on the ring and tug. “All while still saving room for the last.”

Hubert is fully aware again now, with all the pain and pleasure that goes with it. Mostly, though, he’s aware of the crisp agony of Ferdinand’s mouth, and the hardening of his own abused cock, oversensitive even as it stirs.

“There’s a good shadow,” Ferdinand purrs, as he brings one gloved hand down to grip at Hubert’s balls through his breeches. Hubert sucks in air and bites down on his lower lip at the rough fondling of battered flesh. “Ferdie,” he whines, muscles tensing. Wanting him to stop, wanting him to give him relief, wanting him to make the torture last forever again.

Ferdinand sits up with a laugh. “‘Ferdie’? Please. Maybe you can get away with calling me that in our bed. Not here.” He yanks at the fine chain on Hubert’s collar and begins to stand. “Stand up, pet.”

Hubert’s legs feel turned to gelatin, but he somehow manages to climb up, tottering precariously. His breeches have ridden down enough that the waist is trapping his thighs together. As he wobbles, Ferdinand grabs him by one hip to hold him in place.

“Easy, love.” Ferdinand stands behind him; kisses the slope of one shoulder. “I have you.”

And he does. He always will.

“Now, then.” Ferdinand slips both of his gloved hands down the line of Hubert's hips into his breeches, and it shoves them further down. Let's see just how good of a pet you've been for me.”

Hubert bites his lower lip and casts his gaze to the high painted ceiling of the throne room has Ferdinand gently parts the halves of his ass. Cherubs and flames and clouds and eagles—a gaudy sight, yet another thing he knows Ferdinand is bound to change. But he won’t mind staring up at it for the time being, if he’s always staring at it for something like _this_.

“Here we are,” Ferdinand murmurs appreciatively at his ear, as his fingers skim down the seam of Hubert’s ass and nudge at the firm, sculpted piece of iron protruding from there. “My word. And you've worn this all day for me?”

“I wanted to please you. Always.” Hubert winces as Ferdinand flicks the outer part of the plug, and it rakes against him inside. He shudders and lurches forward, but his emperor catches him.

“So, so good.” Ferdinand gives it a gentle twist. “I love when you keep your hole so hungry and slutty for me.”

Hubert sighs again. “Please, your Majesty. I have been so good.”

“Oh, no, my love. You are thoroughly wicked.” Ferdinand tugs at the plug, and Hubert cries out as the metal begins to slip out of him. “But wicked is how I like you.”

Ferdinand takes one hand away from him. “Can you stand still?”

Hubert merely nods, because standing and speaking both might just undo him.

“Good.”

And then Hubert hears the shuffle of rich velvet as Ferdinand unfastens his coat. Hubert closes his eyes, and clenches fists at his sides. Should he beg? The abrupt flush of his renewed erection is making it hard to think clearly. That, and the soft rise and fall of his lover’s breath.

“Come, pet.” Ferdinand backs away from him. “I'd like you to join me on my throne.”

Hubert all but leaps to comply.

As he stands before his emperor, Ferdinand looks into his eyes and toys with the golden leash that dangles over his lap. “Darling shadow.” He pulls at the leash to bring Hubert's face to his, and seizes him by the chin. “This is all for you.”

Hubert's vision waters as he smiles. “I am nothing without you to serve, my love.”

Ferdinand beams, and holds him by the jaw as he yanks him into a rough kiss. His mouth is so sweet and warm, he teeth sharp and scraping, and Hubert is instantly lost. He moans at the rough thrust of Ferdinand's tongue. Quivers at the tautness of the collar at his throat. Sighs at the warmth that rushes through him—filling him with his love for this man, his oath to this crown, his blessed devotion to his own personal divinity, his emperor, his lover, and he will commit himself to whatever dark rites will sustain his worship.

Ferdinand breaks the kiss with a pleased sigh. Blinks slowly, lashes gilded in the light, and Hubert drinks in the sight of him once more. “Now, pet. Turn around,” Ferdinand orders. “Lean forward for me.”

Hubert does so, as slowly as he can bring himself to, resting his hands on the tops of his thighs. There is the sound of a vial being uncorked. Hubert flinches. Then a bare hand is pulling out his plug, and he clenches at the sudden, taunting emptiness. But just as quickly, warm fingers, slick with oil, push into him, and he cries.

“So good,” Ferdinand says, soothing his other hand over the curve of Hubert’s ass. “So wide and ready for me like the greedy sewer that you are.”

“Always, for you.” Hubert grits his teeth as Ferdinand curls one finger inside him; pushes all the way to the knuckle. “Only for you.”

“Oh, I am certain of that.”

Ferdinand’s fingers ease out of him, and Hubert keens. But then his hips are both gripped. Angled. His emperor pulls his back toward his lap—

And at the hard press of Ferdinand’s cock against his hole, he wails.

“That’s it.” Ferdinand brings one gloved hand to Hubert’s throat, holding him steady as the other guides him down into his lap. “Mine.”

“Yours,” Hubert cries, as Ferdinand fills him, stretches him, torments him so well.

He’s seated fully on Ferdinand now, but Ferdinand isn’t moving, just adjusting his hips beneath him as he kisses and nips at Hubert’s shoulder. “Look at it, shadow.” The gloved hand at his throat turns his face toward the dark, empty throne room beyond them. “Remember this view. I want you to remember it each and every time you stand at my side.” His teeth dig into the rangy muscle of Hubert’s shoulder blade, and Hubert cries out. “Through every insufferable council meeting, through every pomp and circumstance, I want you to remember.”

Hubert whimpers. Ferdinand’s cock is thrust right up against that dark core within him, and the sensation is almost too much to bear. “I’ll never forget.”

“Good.”

Ferdinand’s body relaxes beneath him, cock slipping downward a fraction—and then with a sharp snap of hips, he thrusts deeper in.

“Fuck,” Hubert whines, against the collar and gloved hand at his throat. “Goddess, please—”

Another hard pulse as Ferdinand fucks up into him, and then Hubert is sobbing, begging, mewling like the filth he is, tears of gratitude spilling from his eyes as hungry prayers pour from his mouth.

“That’s it, love.”

Ferdinand’s bare left hand loops the golden chain of the leash around Hubert’s cock, and with the metal digging against his shaft, begins to stroke him, lazy, tauntingly. Meanwhile, the gloved hand glides down from his throat to pinch at his nipple, and Hubert’s whining turns to a high-pitched cry.

“Good pet,” Ferdinand coos at his ear. “I so love it when you’re loud.”

And how could he not be—for his emperor, his love, his world? He would walk this bloody path a thousand times over to bring them to this throne.

“Tell me when you’re close,” Ferdinand growls at his ear. Tightens his stranglehold on Hubert’s cock. “But don’t you dare come yet.”

The years spent gathering evidence—letting the ministers think he’d gone soft. That he and his prince were afraid.

The careful study of poisons, seeking just the reaction he needed.

“Fuck,” Ferdinand hisses, and Hubert whimpers in turn.

The council meeting he’d interrupted—showing up in the prince’s stead. All the palace guards at his back, for such heinous crimes could not go unchecked. Embezzlement, abuse of office, mismanagement of funds and troops and the palace itself, even theft from Emperor von Aegir—

Ferdinand anchors him, keeps him from sinking into inky silence, murmuring in his ear as he fucks Hubert, as he works his hand up and down his chain-wrapped cock, squeezing, bouncing him on the throne—

And the evidence he threw before the assembly. So much even the emperor couldn’t ignore. Never mind how he sputtered and cried and declared it an outrage as the guards swarmed in to make the arrests—

And Hubert merely smiled as the emperor clutched at his chest.

“Close,” Hubert whispers. “So close—Your Majesty—”

_Enjoying your wine, von Aegir_? Hubert asked, looking at the strange film lining the glass.

And his heart was always too weak, much too weak to rule. Nothing like his son’s, boundless and unchecked.

_I am your—emperor—_ he’d gasped, dropping to his knees—_and I demand respect—_

“Now.” Ferdinand ruts up into him with a desperate keen. “Now—”

_I respect one emperor,_ Hubert said.

And Hubert comes, even as he feels that hot seed fill him—comes over Ferdinand’s hand, the leash, his thighs and Ferdinand’s own. As His Majesty’s come drips out of him to stain them both and stain the throne.

Ferdinand’s throne. Their throne. Everything they’ve earned.

And each other—the hardest-won prize of all.

Hubert collapses back against him, and is only dimly aware of the rush of praise Ferdinand heaps on him, weary and sated himself. Ferdinand is kissing his temple, his neck, his back, pulling his head back to kiss his throat, running soft hands along his thighs and stomach as he murmurs, and Hubert doesn’t need to hear the words, because he knows, through the haze and delirium, that he is treasured, he is loved.

His emperor wraps him up in a sumptuous red cloak and cradles him to his chest. “You paved the way. For this. For us.”

Hubert nods, drowsy, and traces one finger down plush pink lips. “Someday I will tell you, I think. But not today.”

“Now, you are right.” Ferdinand brushes his nose against Hubert’s face. “It can wait.”

His lips press to Hubert’s forehead, and he exhales, warm air on Hubert’s skin. “My darling.” His arms tighten to carry Hubert, lift them both up. “Let’s get you cleaned.”

“No. A moment longer.” Hubert tips his head toward the empty chamber, drowsiness and weariness threatening to drag him back under. “Never doubt again—that I’d do anything for you. For us.”

And Ferdinand’s gentle laugh is worth a thousand crowns, a thousand thrones, an entire empire ready to be reforged in the new dawn.

“Beloved shadow. You know that you don’t owe me anything. I freed you long ago.”

“But I’m yours all the same.”

Hubert taps the golden crown; smiles up at him.

“Long live Emperor Ferdinand.”

**Author's Note:**

> [@Bohemienne6](http://twitter.com/Bohemienne6)


End file.
